


Real

by CJS_DEPPendent



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 04:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14097081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CJS_DEPPendent/pseuds/CJS_DEPPendent
Summary: Sometimes fear can be the thing that pushes you in the right direction.





	Real

**Author's Note:**

> Written following an idea I shared on tumblr. Thanks to @casualsketchpaintingfan, @youarespecialforme, and @ussjellyfish over on tumblr for encouraging me to write this.

Melinda May had never put much stock in the notion of fear. It was of no practical or tactical use, unless used against someone else. She had also never been particularly afraid of anything – it sounded fake, even to her: ‘the spy with no fears’, but it was true. After Bahrain, she had no fears – when you have nothing to lose, very little scares you; and she had nothing.

The Rift, however, had somehow seen right through those walls she’d so carefully put up over the years. Lash was proof of that: the embodiment of what she had lost, of chances not taken. Of a life not lived.

The rest of the team were assembled in the control room, Fitz and Deke arguing over the best way to convert the Gravitonium they’d recovered from the _Principia_ into a permanent fix for the rift, everyone else helping as best they could. But she wasn’t a scientist, she had nothing to offer in that particular conversation and, to be honest, she was tired; tired of faking a smile, of holding it all together when she just wanted to break.

She could understand everyone else’s hopefulness: Fitz and Simmons had gotten married, there was hope there; Deke had just been presented with a world full of possibilities, there was hope _there;_  and Mack had gotten Fitz what he needed to build Elena arms, so there was hope there too. But as far as she was concerned, there was no hope: her leg was healing, but would never be the same again, and her best friend, her partner for over 30 years, was dying and refused to let her do anything about it.

She felt a great many things, but hopeful was not one of them.

So she’d sought some peace and quiet in the common room, currently deserted as the team attempted to solve the Gravitonium problem.

She felt like she just needed to breathe. Between Coulson’s reveal, the rift, the wedding and a freakin’ flying boat, she hadn’t gotten a moment to herself, and despite her infamous iron-clad control, she felt like she was about to break.

Her leg ached as she took a seat on one of the leather couches, the muscles almost burning as she bent them, before giving in and stretching the leg out onto a nearby chair. ‘ _The Cavalry, Ladies and Gentlemen’_ , she thought with a sad sigh as she felt the stress ease from her thigh.

“Your leg still bothering you?” she would have been startled to hear any voice at that point, believing herself to be alone, but she certainly wasn’t expecting to hear _his_ voice.

It wasn’t that he’d been avoiding her, per se, but ever since his fate had been revealed, it did feel like Coulson had become just that bit more distant – and after the whole ‘taking a step back’ discussion, that hurt.

She could only shrug a shoulder, the answer obvious from the grimace that crossed her features as she moved her foot back to the floor, aiming to stand now that he was there.

Holding a hand up to stop her, Coulson shook his head, “stay, please?”

She wasn’t sure what, but there was something in his voice that made her immediately comply. Silently, she sat there, watching as he rounded the coffee table and took a seat beside her.

They sat in silence for a few moments, neither quite looking at the other, May wondering why he’d even come to her if he was just going to stay silent.

 “I’m sorry,” he finally spoke.

She didn’t know exactly what he was apologizing for – there were a lot of possibilities.

“I should have told you,” he continued. “But I didn’t know how to— telling you made it real.”

“I thought you’d ‘come to terms with it’, how is _that_ not real?” she asked

He shrugged, a cheek raising in an uncomfortable smile, “it was one thing to acknowledge what it meant for me, but if I let myself think what it meant for you—“

She remained silent.

“I’ll be dead,” he shrugged, and it hurt. It hurt her more than her leg, or all the injuries she’d ever sustained combined to hear it. “And you’ll have to carry on. I didn’t want to make that more difficult than it needed to be,” he spoke, eyes ahead of him, his elbows resting on his knees.

Taking a shaky breath, May leant forward, a hand on his forearm drawing his eyes to hers, “difficult?” She almost scoffed, “Phil, you’re— you’re my best friend,” she took a breath, “my _partner_. It won’t be ‘ _difficult_ ’, it will be unbearable.”

He hung his head in acknowledgement, “I didn’t want to make it any more difficult, I—“

“But you are,” she cut him off, a tinge of anger to her voice.

“I know—“

“Do you?” she interrupted again, “because denying us _this_ ,” her hand squeezed around his forearm, “ _is_ making it more difficult.”

“I don’t know what to do.” He looked back toward her, tears in his eyes.

“ _Live_ ,” she replied in a breath, “for however long you’ve got, _live_ ,” her walls were well and truly down now, tears forming in her own eyes.

“Melinda—“ he breathed as he leant forward, their foreheads touching, twisting one way then the other, their breaths shallow as they fought the push and pull of whatever uncertainty still remained.

The dam crashed as their lips met, air sucked in through their noses, hands grasping shoulders, tangling in hair. _Finally_.

* * *

“It needs to be _compressed_ ,” Deke reiterated as his grandfather – _how_ was this even happening?! – continued struggling over how to construct a permanent fix for the rift.

“I _know_ that, _Deke_ ,” Fitz shot back, his patience with the younger man wearing ever-thinner as the younger man turned to the control table, his hands on its cold surface, his head hanging in frustration before looking up to the screens monitoring the base.

“He’s just trying to help, Fitz,” Jemma stepped forward, a calming hand on her husband’s arm, urging him to take a breath – at least a breath if he continued to refuse the rest he so obviously needed.

Sighing Coulson stepped forward from where he’d been leaning against the railing of the control room, “maybe we should take a break,” at Fitz’s incensed look, he tried to reason, “a few minutes,” he held his hand out in front of him in question as he looked around at his exhausted team.

“Coulson,” Deke’s voice sounded strangled as everyone’s attention turned to look at him, turning from the screens, his face ashen as his eyes met Coulson’s.

“What, _now_?” Fitz asked, his annoyance clear.

“ _Coulson_ ,” he repeated, eyes wide as he turned back to the screens, pointing to camera 7, set up a few days ago in the corner of their common room.

* * *

As May lost herself in the sensations of finally being in Phil’s arms, she never noticed his hand reaching for the gun at his hip.

* * *

Before anyone could react to what they were seeing or even speak, Coulson was out the door, a breathed, “ _May!_ ” the only sound uttered as he sprinted from the room.

“ _Shit!_ ” Mack swore as he and Daisy immediately jumped from their seats, shotgun-axe and gun in their respective hands as they followed after Coulson.

* * *

“ _Get away from her!_ ” was the sound that pulled Melinda out of her daze, Phil’s lips leaving hers as she turned, startled to the voice she couldn’t _possibly_ have just heard.

The cold, satisfied smirk on Coulson’s face as he turned from her towards the voice froze something inside of her, her body jerking away from him even as the gun he’d somehow managed to draw from his side raised towards her, his smirk never faltering as he turned back to her.

Three shots rang out, and for a suspended moment, everything froze. May waited for the pain, Daisy and Mack stood unmoving at the door to the common room, Coulson, weapon held high, panting from the effort it took to reach Melinda in time, his eyes never leaving his own, slowly evaporating form on the sofa beside her.

The silence that followed shattered as Daisy ran towards her mentor, a hand on her shoulder as May jerked further into the sofa, her eyes on where Coulson had just evaporated before her very eyes before flashing to the Coulson standing before her, Mack at his side, urging him to breathe as he continued to pant.

When his eyes met hers, she immediately turned away, walls back up and iron-clad control back in full force as she reassured Daisy that she was fine.

“I’m fine,” Coulson breathed at Mack, a hand on his chest making it clear that he really wasn’t.

“Let me get Simmons, Sir,” Mack urged, ready to head for the door and get help.

“I said I’m fine,” he repeated, and this time his tone brooked no argument.

Holding his hands up in surrender, Mack stepped away, turning his attention to where May was standing from the sofa, back turned to them, clearly mimicking Coulson in brushing off Daisy’s concern.

“ _Daisy_ ,” Coulson called, his voice soft but his intention clear: she and Mack needed to leave.

Turning from May, she paused for a second then nodded at the almost pleading look in Coulson’s eyes as he replaced his gun in its holster. Silently nodding to Mack, Daisy left the woman she considered a mother’s side, walking past the only father she’d ever known, before leaving the room, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

The silence was almost deafening as they stood there, Coulson facing May’s back as she stood silent beside the sofa.

“It wasn’t real,” he spoke, not quite registering exactly what he was saying until she turned towards him in a movement so furious it almost made him step back.

“I _know_ that,” she practically spat, the hurt and anger clear on her usually stoic face.

“I—“ he stuttered as what he had said registered. _He_ wasn’t real. That’s what he’d meant. _He_. Not _it_.

 _It_ was very real.

“I didn’t mean—“ he tried again.

“Whatever,” she cut him off, with quick strides moving to walk past him towards the door, his hand at her wrist stopping her before coming to stand before her.

“ _He_ wasn’t real,” he tried.

“ _None_ of it is real,” she countered, again taking a step back from him as he tried to reach out to her, turning away from him as the tears she had been doing her best to fight threatened to finally fall.

The shaking of her shoulders tore through him, his breath shaky as he closed his eyes and prayed he was doing the right thing before speaking, “I know how you feel.”

“Really?!” he heard the anger in her voice even before she turned back towards him and he saw it on her face, “ _really?_ You know how I feel?” she was almost buzzing with anger, the tear she hadn’t managed to wipe from her face tightening the lump in his throat that he couldn’t quite swallow.

He’d never seen her quite so open – yes, it was anger, and pain, but it was _real_. She wasn’t hiding behind walls and layers. In that moment, she wasn’t _Agent_ May. She wasn’t putting up a front for the team. She wasn’t the Cavalry.

“You know what it feels like to have _everything_ you wanted only to have it snatched away?!” he would have laughed at the irony of her question if the situation weren’t so far from being funny.

“Yes,” he whispered, again, hoping that revealing this wouldn’t make things even worse.

“Right,” she nodded, a sad understanding in her eyes as she shrugged her shoulders, “Audrey. I get it. You died, and you lost—“

“No,” he cut her off, taking a tentative step forward, a hand held up as if to stop her train of thought. “I don’t mean— that’s not what—“ she looked so hurt, and angry, and confused; he had to do _something_. “Your LMD,” he finally let the words out, a breath he hadn’t quite realized he was holding escaping his chest as he stared at her.

“My—“ she paused as she let his words sink in, the implication of what he was saying visibly sinking in as the emotions flashed across her face.

“We got close,” he rushed to explain. “I told you, it felt right—“

“The Haig,” she almost whispered, uncertainty in her eyes.

“It was a new beginning. I thought—“

“Phil?” she needed him to be clear, this was all too much.

“We kissed,” he finally breathed, his own frustration and shame clear as he finally let the words slip. “Then you— _she_ pulled a gun on me,” he found himself gesturing towards the couch, the similarities only now dawning on him, “stole the Darkhold. It’s what Radcliff had programmed her to do.”

She was silent now, her mind clearly working through everything he’d just told her.

“So: yes,” he continued, taking a step forward, “I _do_ know how it feels to have _everything_ I wanted only to have it snatched away.”

She continued to look away from him, processing.

“When we got back from the Framework,” she finally spoke, her eyes coming up to meet his, “you said—“

“I wasn’t sure how much of it was you and how much—“ he sighed, “how much was programming.”

“Because part of it felt real,” she supplied, remembering their conversation, her eyes darting to the sofa where, only moments earlier she’d been kissing what she thought was Coulson.

He nodded, his breath shaky as he too glanced towards the couch, “and because maybe part of it was,” he found himself whispering as he turned back to her.

“It felt real—“ she almost whispered.

“I know,” he replied, his voice also a whisper.

They were silent a moment, both looking down, the understanding between them allowing for a moment of piece until their eyes met again.

“But you made the decision to—“ she was hurt, and angry, and confused again.

“Take a step back, I know,” he closed his eyes against both the physical pain that reminded him of why he’d done it in the first place, and the somehow deeper pain of knowing he’d hurt her.

“And you made the decision to die,” she added, her own pain clearly visible, “to not let any of us help.”

“May—“ he tried to soothe her.

“And to go into that basement,” she continued, the tears flowing freely.

“I—“ he didn’t know what to say.

“You know what else feels _real_ , Coulson?” she asked, her eyes alight with anger and an indescribable sorrow, “ _this_.” She gestured to herself; to the pain and anguish she could no longer pretend she wasn’t feeling.

“You know what felt _real_?” she stepped forward and he surprised himself by not stepping back from her anger, “the pain of hearing you were _dead_ ,” she let her hands fist at her sides, “the wood of the chair digging into my back as they lowered your coffin,” she pounded a fist against his chest, “into the _ground_.”

He could do nothing but stand there, his own heart breaking.

“The floor I sat on, drinking myself to sleep the night after we buried you,” both fists were at his chest, “walking back into the Triskellion, knowing I would never see your face again. _That_ was real,” she sobbed, “and it was _unbearable_.”

He couldn’t stand it anymore, his arms folded around her, bringing her shaking form to his chest, his lips falling to her head as his own tears fell from his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair.

“I don’t need you to be _sorry_ ,” she cried, the fist against his chest pushing into him again, her hand opening to lay over the dark lines that were slowly killing him, “I need you to be _here_!”

“I know,” he held her tighter. “I wish I could—“

“Then _fight_ ,” she pulled away far enough to look up at him, her hand still over his chest, “don’t give up, and don’t _ever_ ask me to let go.”

“I don’t think this is a fight I can win,” for the first time, his voice reflected his own despair; he’d said it before: he didn’t _want_ to die.

“Maybe not,” she conceded, her eyes falling to her hand as she traced the outline of his scar through his shirt, “but you can _try_. And you can _live_ while you’re alive,” her eyes rose to his face as his hand cupped her cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear as more continued to fall.

“I don’t want you to waste—“

“Phil,” she interrupted, “that is for _me_ to decide.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, his voice small, cracking with emotion.

“Then stop.”

And it finally dawned on him: he _was_ hurting her. And it wasn’t his impending death, it was _him_. _He_ was hurting her. He may have no control over what came next – over whether he lived or died, or whether they broke the loop or saw the world quaked apart – but _this_ he did have control over.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered as he leant his forehead against hers.

She took a deep, shuddered breath, the tears clouding her eyes as she watched her hand tracing his scar, “I love you.” Her voice was soft, and small, and unsure. But nothing had ever felt as _real_ as his lips descending upon hers, as his hand at her back, holding her to him, or as his breath against her lips as he replied.

“ _God_ , I love you, too, Melinda.”

**Author's Note:**

> So. Much. Angst.  
> Please let me know what you thought!


End file.
